Bones of the Dragon - Margaret Weis [78]
“Fix me something to eat. And fetch me more cider,” Horg told her as she dragged herself out of bed.
His head throbbed. His mouth was dry as dirt. The cider was cold and tasted good and eased the pain. He drank it thirstily. As his head cleared, it occurred to him that two nights had passed and he had not seen Draya. She had not come home. He was angry. A wife belonged with her husband.
Horg did wonder, a bit uneasily, what he would do if she refused. Her defiance would make him look bad. People would say he could not control his wife.
An idea came to him, struck him like a thunderbolt. His idea was so amazing and wonderful, it sent tingles of excitement through his blood, as exhilarating as the cider.
Horg chuckled and made haste to dress and arm himself. He would go to the beach, but first he intended to have a talk with his wife.
Draya was rising unsteadily to her feet when the door to the Hall flew open with a bang.
“Bitch!” Horg roared. “You did not come home last night!”
Draya stilled her trembling heart and slowly turned to face him. She had gone two days and nights with almost no sleep and nothing to eat, and she was taut as a bowstring. She didn’t feel fear. She didn’t feel anything. She could smell the cider.
“I am not coming home,” she told him. “Ever. I loathe the very sight of you.”
“I don’t take any great pleasure in looking at you, Wife, what with your small tits and bony ass,” Horg said crudely. He had drunk just enough to give himself courage. “But you’re my wife, and you’ll do as I say.”
“We will not speak of this now. Leave the sacred Hall. Your presence angers the gods.”
“Gods!” Horg gave a whoop and a great guffaw. “What gods?”
Draya gasped. “Are you mad? Keep your voice down!” She tried to sidle past him, heading for the door. “The Torgun are here. You should be with the warriors—”
Horg seized her arm in a bone-crushing grip and twisted it. She moaned and tried in vain to break free.
“I got to thinking about what the ogres told me,” Horg said, breathing cider fumes into her face. “About the gods being dead. Do you realize what this means, Kai Priestess? You have no power over me! No rutting Priestess does. I can get rid of the whole bloody lot of you!”
“You are wrong, Horg,” Draya said, her numb lips barely able to move. “The gods are not dead—”
“C’mon, Vindrash!” Horg bawled, still hanging on to Draya. “Strike me down! Prove to me you’re alive!”
Horg laughed again, his foul-smelling breath hot on her face, nearly gagging her. The blast of a ram’s horn sounding the alarm cut short his mirth.
“The Torgun.” Horg spoke with a disdainful curl of his lip. “Norgaard has come to whine that they’ve been mistreated.”
“They have just cause for complaint,” said Draya. She paused to try to keep her voice from trembling, then said defiantly, “And so I will tell the people.”
Horg grunted. “You’ll keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”
He gave her arm another twist; this one nearly wrenched her elbow from the socket. Pain flared, white-hot. Draya cried out and sagged in his grip. She was afraid she would pass out. Horg drove her to her knees and squatted over her.
“You will back me up, Draya. If you don’t, there will be war, and it will be your fault. The blood of your people will be on your hands!”
“I have a duty to the people! I am still Kai Priestess!” Draya cried.
Horg smiled an unpleasant smile. “Not for long.” He walked off, slamming the door behind him.
Draya remained crouched on the floor, cradling her injured arm. She had underestimated Horg, underestimated his cunning and tenacity. Horg had the power to destroy the Kai. If he did, he would bring about the fall of the Vindrasi nation.
Draya raised her eyes to the statue of the goddess.
“You must stop him, Vindrash!” Draya breathed.
The eyes of the goddess might have flickered—Draya wasn’t sure.
She picked up her ceremonial robes and gingerly wrapped them around her shoulders, favoring her injured arm, then left the Great Hall, heading for the beach. Horg was in front of her, swaggering